Literacy+Reflection



My Literate Selfby Monica Swift As I write my lesson plans, I often wonder how I learned to develop an essay or how I learned grammar. Now as I look back at my path to literacy I see that an amalgamation of events and habits led to my ability to read. Growing up my younger sister and I always had a shelf of books just for Angie and me. I don’t remember a time when I could not grab a book and know that Mama would read to me. However, every night something magical happened. Mama would read bedtime stories from one of two oversized books: //A Treasury of FairyTales// and //The Greatest Stories of the Bible//. (Since the purpose of this essay is to dwell on my actual literacy rather than cultural literacy, I will not dive into the contrasting messages these two books sent.) The bedtime readings lasted just minutes for my younger sister who would run away with the sandman, but I would stay awake for every word. I followed Mama’s finger as she tracked each word, until one day I began to recognize those words in other places. I began to search out familiar words, whether they were on billboard signs or cereal boxes. It became an obsession. I couldn’t stop myself; if I knew the word, it must be read.

When I was six, Mama heard somewhere that “good readers are born in the library” (she also heard that exceptional students study music and forced Angie and me into piano lessons, but I digress). So, in an attempt to“advantage” her offspring, she took us to the Goddard Public Library every other Saturday, since we could check out books two weeks at a time, and told us to select books that we would actually read. I have to say access to the library opened up a world beyond my bookshelf at home (which included a lot of horse stories thanks to my sister’s input on what “we” wanted to read). In second grade, I remember Mrs. Odom reading us //Little House in the Big Woods// and //Little House on the Prairie//. Of course we all watched the weekly program on TV, so there was a built-in interest before Mrs. Odom even began reading. Still, I asked for the books for my birthday and tried to read them for myself. By fourth grade, I remember discovering mysteries; heck I had loved Scooby Doo, so Nancy Drew was a natural step, and by seventh grade I was reading Agatha Christie. I experimented with words, however, my mispronounciations required correction. In fact, some of my attempts at new words were so immensely slaughtered that I received blank looks from my teacher when I tried to incoporate the words in my everyday speech. In Junior High I met Amy, who explained that “smart” people read the classics and nonfiction, so I read //Gone with the Wind// and a story about the sinking of the Titanic. The more I read the more I pushed myself to read even more difficult books.

The women in my family modeled reading. Mama read voraciously; I now know it was junk reading, but they were books all the same. Grandma, on the other hand, rarely varied her book of choice, //The Holy Bible,// and could often be found deeply engrossed in it. These examples of good reading habits encouraged me to discover what the words on the pages really meant. OK, so the desire was fostered, but //how// did I learn to read? Well, there was //Sesame Street// and //The Electric Company//, but my TV watching was so limited (thanks again to Mama hearing somewhere that too much TV watching would "make us dumb") that I didn’t get to see as much of those programs as I wanted. In first grade we started working with letters and listening to guided readers on huge earphone sets. I remember struggling with differentiating my letters. I knew how to verbally spell words like “dinosaur,” but when I wrote them, they came out “pinosaur.” Mrs.Click, my first grade teacher, had a couple of us pulled out and worked with in another room. I never mentioned it to my folks, because I was embarrassed about being singled out. Now I realize that my folks would have been asked to sanction this extra help and probably even advocated for it. By the time I was in second grade, my teacher was grouping me with the stronger readers in the class, and I found that the flipping of p’s, b’s, and d’s went away if I was well rested and slowed down my writing. I liked being with the strong students – people can say what they want about young students not being aware of their weaknesses, but kids know. Oddly enough, I was not bothered about being clumped with the average math students.

Early in life I associated the “bad” students with being poor. In suburban school the //haves// and the //have nots// are obvious. Now, as a teacher, I realize that is not always the case. Good parenting is key and even the most economically deprived mother (or father) can raise strong readers. I also noticed that when the parents are absent the teacher can be a surrogate, and that gives me hope for the literacy of my students. I truly appreciate the opportunities my mother made possible for my literacy, and I can only hope that I will be just as good a model for my own children and my students.

Literacy Paper “In Search of Nirvana” by Michele Benefiel

What do you know? Here I am, almost 50 and I still haven’t arrived at my literacy nirvana, not yet anyway. Not even after completing three college degrees. Not even after teaching English to high school students. Not even after a lifetime of hungrily reading anything I could get my hands on. I don’t think I, or anyone else who loves literature, will ever be able to reach their literary nirvana. It simply isn’t possible. There are too many things to learn and so many books to read, and unfortunately, a limited life span in which to do it all.

Through books I learned to ask questions, to be skeptical, to be aware, to be cautious. I learned about love and sex. I discovered that no matter what the setting, genre, or age of the characters, sex and love always follow the same basic formula. I learned to see the world through others' eyes, other places (real or imagined), and other viewpoints (even those I vehemently opposed). Through literature, I learned to laugh, to sharpen my own wit, and to tell amusing anecdotes. Being literate brought me closer to God, to others, but most importantly, to myself.

Sometimes I cursed the books. Like a frenzied dieter or an addict, I made a solemn promise to put them away – for now, for a time, forever. And then my fingers would itch, my heart would race, and my head would ache for more words.

Like Eve and Persephone, I had unleashed, savored, and sampled the food of knowledge - of words. Once tasted, the flavor cannot be forgotten. And this often was a good thing, or a great thing, or sometimes simply a getaway. But on occasions, literacy became a source of sadness, disappointment, and misery. It seemed the more I read, the more I learned, the more questions I asked – well, quite frankly, the more disillusioned and unsettled I became. I’d hate myself for questioning the existence of God, the way of the world, and the essence of the human condition.

Ignorance truly is bliss. At times I wish I was a different person, one who wasn’t so curious and greedy for words and knowledge. Life would be easier if I had no desire to read. I could sleep blissfully each night without having to artificially shut down my brain. Maybe I would find nirvana that way. But, dammit, I am the girl who trembles when she goes into a bookstore, a library, or to the book department of a thrift store. I lovingly stroke the spines and covers. I pick them up, take in their fragrance, and then fan through the pages and create a soft, comforting mixture of air, sight, and smell. It is then I understand why I am compelled to seek.